


lost and found and lost again

by bluebeholder



Series: One and the Same [11]
Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Anders (Dragon Age) Positive, M/M, Past Anders/Karl Thekla, Plot, Reluctant Revolutionary Fenris
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-02
Updated: 2020-06-02
Packaged: 2021-03-04 05:07:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,045
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24508162
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluebeholder/pseuds/bluebeholder
Summary: Late summer, 9:37 DragonA trip into a nearby town to find some lost apostates reveals unpleasant news. Tensions within the Circles are escalating, and the clouds of war are gathering. Anders and Fenris, as leaders of the Mage Underground and protectors of vulnerable mages, have choices to make.
Relationships: Anders/Fenris (Dragon Age)
Series: One and the Same [11]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1654444
Comments: 10
Kudos: 41





	lost and found and lost again

They wake before dawn, before the sky has done more than begun to hint at the approach of the sun, with Anders in extremely high spirits. He flits about the camp at various errands while Fenris prepares for the day: stretching out, conducting his morning exercises, and so on. He centers himself before donning his armor and taking up his sword. Today has the potential to go quite poorly and Fenris must be prepared.

On his way to meet Anders at the road leading out of camp, Fenris catches a glimpse of himself in Barbigia’s polished mirror, hanging near the door of the tent he shares with young Bertrand. He pauses and looks again, for just a moment. At the moment, his own face feels unfamiliar to see.

Fenris cut his hair recently. Gone is the style he’d worn as long as he can remember, that short boyish mop which apparently made him look younger than his years. In its place, Fenris decided to shave most of his head. The sides and back of his head are cropped extremely short, to a point above his temples; there, at the crown of his head, he’s left it long enough that it still can be combed.

Anders claims that it draws attention to the shape of Fenris’ face and to his eyes. Fenris isn’t sure he’d go _that_ far, but it makes Anders happy and is a pleasant, easy change.

Now, if Anders is to be believed, he also looks less like a youth. Thanks to his lost memories, Fenris is unsure of his precise age. He doesn’t believe that he reached the age of majority before entering Danarius’ service. Yet he also must have been old enough to adequately wield a blade and defeat whatever competition he had faced. He _knows_ he was in Danarius’ service for no less than six years before his flight, spent three years on the run, and lived for six years in Kirkwall.

“Well, by those numbers, you’re _at least_ fifteen,” Anders had said, when he and Fenris spent an evening on such calculations. “Which makes _me_ a cradle robber.”

Fenris had scoffed at that. “I must have been at least sixteen, if I entered such a competition at all,” he said. “No one, not even a slave, can be a soldier in Tevinter any younger than that. That would make me at least _thirty-one_ , mage, unless you cannot do simple sums.”

“I still have almost ten years on you,” Anders had grumbled, “and I’m even starting to go gray.”

“So?” Fenris had asked with a snort. “No matter how old I may be, _my_ hair is already white.”

He puts these thoughts from his mind as he joins Anders by the road. Today they go into Aulbarrow, the nearby village which provides their camp with supplies and news. It sits a few miles further downriver on the same branch of the Minanter River that their camp does, beyond the edge of the forest. Locals won’t go into the forest for fear of monsters, which is of benefit to the small contingent of refugee mages living in the camp; no one needs to know that they’ve done a good deal of clearing away of the monsters that so frighten the residents of Aulbarrow.

What makes today’s trip special is that today it isn’t merely a supply run. Anders received word through the fragile network of the Mage Underground that a few apostates are coming to Aulbarrow in the hope of finding safety. He’ll be retrieving them today, as well as continuing correspondence with someone he hopes will help them.

Fenris will be there, just in case things go wrong.

“Are we ready?” he asks, coming up to Anders and the others going into the village.

Maris, already sitting on the box of the small oxcart, nods. “I’ve been ready for an hour,” she says. Despite her magical skill, she carries no staff. Benefits to being a Knight Enchanter, Fenris supposes. Maris doesn’t have to worry about a staff giving her away—though, knowing the elderly lady, she’d probably welcome a challenge.

Arnfried, the farmer from the Anderfels, finishes fixing their ox to the yoke of the cart. “Good old Theo’s ready to go,” he says in his heavy Ander accent, slapping the ox’s rump affectionately.

“I am prepared,” Alina says serenely. Fenris has been teaching her to use the short sword belted now on her hip and, with the singleminded focus gifted by Tranquility, she’s turned out to be a fair fighter in a very short time. She wears a scarf around her head, covering her forehead and the sunburst brand there. The only giveaway of her status is the expressionlessness of her face.

“Which means we really should be off,” Anders says. He wears a cloak and hood for disguise, but must unfortunately carry a staff. The obviousness of it makes Fenris wince, but no one in Aulbarrow has had a comment yet.

“Get up, there, get up,” Arnfried says, nudging the ox with his goad, and they begin their trek to Aulbarrow.

It’s an uneventful trip, all told. They’ve been meticulous about securing the land around their camp, which means no giant spiders or bandits. Rumors of undead haunting the forest have never been proven to Fenris’ satisfaction, so he’s not worried about that, no matter what the people of Aulbarrow continue to claim.

Local legend holds that, in the long-ago days when the Imperium reigned over the whole continent, a heroic legionnaire had confronted a terrible monster threatening the people of the valley. In slaying the monster, he himself had died, and had been buried with honors. His grave is supposed to be somewhere in the forest, grown over with ancient trees, along with many other ancient burial sites. Undead are supposed to issue forth from such sites, stalking travelers in the wood.

As far as Fenris is concerned, this is all just a fairy tale.

They arrive in Aulbarrow by midmorning. Arnfried has his own business—he wants to purchase a milk cow, since his own was lost on the way from the Anderfels—while Maris and Alina handle transactions for the various supplies the camp requires, and search for any special requests. Anders goes alone to meet with his contact, at least at first; Fenris will join him later. In the meantime, Fenris has two stops of his own to make, seeking rumor and news.

He makes his way first to the tavern. There are two in Aulbarrow, despite its small size. One is a small, quiet tavern frequented only by locals. The other, right on the crossroads passing through the village, is a much louder and more raucous inn where all travelers through Aulbarrow end up staying while they pass through. This is a much better place for news from the outside world.

As Fenris walks through the streets, he muses that Aulbarrow is a pleasant place. The streets are not paved, but they are wide and generally clean. The buildings are humble, mostly built of wood and poor brick, with few very few all of stone, but they are not generally ramshackle. The local blacksmith does a thriving trade for locals and travelers alike; the baker is doing brisk business already this morning.

It is a friendly town for travelers. A few people even lift a hand in greeting to Fenris as he passes, which is novel. At first, Fenris faced suspicion when he was in Aulbarrow, but his near-accidental rescue of the reeve’s (idiotic) son from bandits shortly after their arrival in the area cemented a cordial reputation with the locals.

The inn, “The Running Rose,” ostensibly named for the dramatic love story between the innkeeper Ayah and her Antivan wife Serena, isn’t crowded at this time of morning. The well-worn floors creak under Fenris’ feet to announce his entrance, but no one looks up. A few travelers, dusty and well-armed, sit at a table drinking and talking in low voices; a couple of older men and women, regulars, sit near the hearth chatting. Serena is at the bar this morning and Fenris makes right for her.

“Good morning,” Serena says, looking up at him with a smile. “We were starting to miss you, Serah Wolf.”

When asked for his name after rescuing the reeve’s son, Fenris had panicked and said that he was only known as a wolf. In the interest of anonymity, he’d elected not to correct anyone on the matter afterwards.

Fenris offers a smile in return, leaning on the bar. “How could I abandon your fine establishment?”

Serena winks at him. “I know you only came for the mead.”

“It is better than any mead I’ve had elsewhere,” Fenris says. He drops a pair of copper coins on the bar and Serena sweeps them away. She comes back with a mazer full of mead, of which Fenris takes an immediate drink. It’s dry, the way he prefers wine, but carrying the flavor of honey, which Ayah told him is mostly heather and Prophet’s thistle.

“As good as ever, I hope,” Serena says.

“You never disappoint,” Fenris says. He takes another very satisfying drink before asking, “Any news from Ansburg?”

Serena shrugs. “Only the usual,” she says, and though her eyes gleam with obvious curiosity as they do every time he comes for news, she doesn’t pry. “The Margrave is considering raising taxes again, but when isn’t he?”

Fenris shrugs. “He’s been considering it every time I’ve ever spoken to you. Has he ever done it?”

“No,” Serena says with a laugh. “He knows all of Ansburg would riot. I hear that a troop of Wardens left Dunstead Keep, marching off south somewhere. It’s a little odd, but we don’t really need them anyway when there’s no Blight around these parts, do we?”

In the end, Serena has no more insight to offer. Fenris makes idle small talk with her until he finishes the mead, then takes his leave. He has a second stop to make, this one at a slightly more stressful location than The Running Rose.

Aulbarrow has a Chantry, of course, but it’s a far cry from the spectacular Chantry of Kirkwall. Looking between the two, Fenris always finds a new understanding of Anders’ argument that the one in Kirkwall was no house of faith. The Aulbarrow Chantry has no grand statues or vaulted ceilings, only one beautiful stained-glass window in the shape of a blazing sun that lights when the rising sun strikes it, and an elegant brazier in which the eternal flame burns.

The benches on which the faithful sit are old and well-worn, with no cushions for comfort; the smoke from the brazier has permanently blackened the roof beams with ash. It is quiet, but a warm and comfortable quiet. Often, when Fenris arrives, there is only the sound of the brazier crackling and the sound from the choir loft above where one of the Sisters takes her turn singing the Chant of Light.

Fenris is no practicing Andrastian, but he always takes a moment to gaze into the brazier before going to seek out the Reverend Mother. He can’t deny that the place grants him a certain sense of peace. In difficult times like these, that’s something to be relished.

The Reverend Mother is usually to be found in the small Chantry library, attached to the main building. It serves as the office for the Chantry, where business is conducted and visitors received, as well as where the Reverend Mother meets privately with members of the flock coming to her for advice. Fenris knocks on the open doorframe when he sees the Reverend Mother sitting at the desk; she looks up from her work and smiles.

“Serah Wolf,” she says. “Welcome back.”

“It’s a pleasure, as always, Reverend Mother,” Fenris says. He takes a seat when she gestures at a low chair, acutely aware of the awkwardness of his greatsword in this small space.

The Reverend Mother is elderly, frail, her delicate skin scattered with dark liver spots. Yet despite her age and trembling voice, her keen gaze betrays a sharp mind. “I presume you’ve come for news again, young man?”

“You know me well,” Fenris says.

“Now, if only I could convince you to come for services,” the Reverend Mother says. She folds her hands on the desk. “Perhaps someday, yes?”

Fenris ducks his head a little. “Perhaps,” he allows.

“In lieu of preaching to you, we may speak of more worldly matters,” she says. “The Grand Cleric in Ansburg has sent out word of trouble in the Circle.”

“Oh?” Fenris keeps his face carefully neutral, a façade he perfected playing cards against Varric.

The Reverend Mother inclines her head. “I recall that some time ago you mentioned having spent time in Kirkwall. It seems the death of the maleficar responsible for Grand Cleric Elthina’s death and the destruction of the Chantry was not enough to quell trouble.”

This is exactly the bad news Fenris has been waiting for. He forces himself to stay relaxed, lounging a little in his seat. “How so?”

“The Chantry in Ansburg has called for more Templars to come from the garrison in Starkhaven,” the Reverend Mother says. “There is great unrest in the Circle. I have heard that certain dangerous apostates have even broken from their guardians. You must be careful.”

“Of course, Reverend Mother,” Fenris says.

“You bring an uncanny interest in the affairs of the Circles to my office, Serah Wolf,” the Reverend Mother says after a long moment. “I have thought long on the matter, and I wonder if you would tell me why.”

Fenris finds the excuse coming easily to his lips. “I was born in Tevinter,” he says, looking away. “Beneath the rule of magisters. I still watch the doings of mages closely.”

“Ah,” she says. She reaches out with one frail hand to cover Fenris’. “I pray that you will find peace, Serah Wolf. You have a strong spirit.”

“Thank you, Reverend Mother.”

Her grip tightens a little, not so much that Fenris couldn’t pull away if he wished, but enough to be noticeable. “I will likewise pray for the peace of your companion,” she says.

Fenris thinks his heart might stop.

The Reverend Mother smiles slightly. “It is well known that you come and go from Aulbarrow with strange company,” she says. “There are not so many Qunari in these parts.”

“You aren’t speaking of Ornek,” Fenris says, mouth suddenly dry.

“No,” she says.

“He does no harm.”

“I know,” the Reverend Mother says, still smiling a little. “You think I am blind, Serah Wolf? Your friend is an apothecary of _rare_ ability.”

Internally, Fenris rages. He had told Anders over and over that offering his healing skill—even if only with the basics of the trade of herbalist and physician—was a great risk. Now here he sits. “He is indeed,” Fenris says, not letting on to his thoughts.

“And his staff is, I am sure, only meant for walking,” the Reverend Mother says. She withdraws her hand, leaning back in her chair. Though she smiles, her eyes are solemn. “Go with care. I can make no guarantees that Aulbarrow will be friendly to you for much longer.”

“Thank you for the warning, Reverend Mother,” Fenris says, rising to his feet. Although he’s not particularly tall by human standards, he still practically towers over the tiny woman sitting at the desk. Yet he still feels small, and a little afraid, under her gaze.

“Be well, Serah Wolf,” the Reverend Mother says as Fenris turns and flees the Chantry.

They’ve no time to waste.

He finds Anders on the edge of Aulbarrow at their appointed meeting spot, in the empty building that had once been a tannery. The smell of the work that had once been carried out here lingers enough that locals rarely come to the place. It’s a convenient way to dissuade casual onlookers from seeing the covert business that Anders conducts here. Tanneries, sewers…Fenris isn’t sure if Anders can come up with any more distasteful places than these, but he _is_ sure that Anders will try.

Fenris raps on the door in a quick pattern to alert Anders that it’s him before stepping inside the empty tannery. Anders stands talking to three other people, two of whom carry staffs, the third of whom is a well-dressed elf. They all turn to look at him.

“So it turns out that Ansburg Circle is terrible,” Anders says.

“That’s what the Reverend Mother told me,” Fenris says grimly. “We need to go, _now_.”

“I’m ready,” one of the mages says. A mottled bruise spreads green and purple across the left side of her face, her staff is cracked and splintered apart on the end, it appears that much of her hair has been _burned off_ , and her clothes are impossibly battered. Yet she meets Fenris’ gaze squarely.

“We’ll meet the others on the road,” Anders says, striding toward the doors without looking back. “Fenris, talk while we go.”

As they guide the three mages—well, two mages, one Tranquil—around Aulbarrow to the assigned meeting point on its other side, Fenris gives Anders the news he gathered from tavern and Chantry. “I don’t mind the Wardens leaving, but Templars in Aulbarrow will be a problem,” Anders says.

“I thought this place was supposed to be safe,” the other mage, plainly but elegantly dressed, mutters under his breath.

“It’s as safe as anywhere in Thedas can be for apostates,” Fenris says over his shoulder.

“Which means that it’s _not_ safe,” the woman snaps, and her sharp words shut down any further conversation.

They meet up with the others in good time, as the sun is sliding down low in the sky. Arnfried found his placid-eyed milk cow, which he has already fondly named Lottie. Maris and Alina found most of the necessary supplies, though Alina has several comments on the efficiency, or lack thereof, of Aulbarrow’s butcher. Maris welcomes the new apostates warmly, and it’s only now, as they set out again, that Fenris manages to learn their names.

Two of the mages are from Ansburg Circle. The elf, Pavel, had been made Tranquil by his own request before undergoing his Harrowing; still, his role in carrying messages for seditious elements in the Circle had landed him in enough trouble that it seemed logical for him to flee. Meanwhile, Fabian, a survivor of the long-ago disaster at the Circle Tower in Ferelden, apparently crossed paths with Anders many times before his final escape, though they were never friends.

As for the third, her name is Malota, and apparently she has been on the run alone since escaping the Gallows in Kirkwall, leading to her battered state. “You saved us,” she says bluntly to Anders. “The Templars were so off-guard after the explosion that we had a chance to fight back for real, before they could regroup. Every mage who was in the Gallows owes you.”

Anders is silent for a long moment. When Fenris looks up at Anders, he sees only stark shock. It doesn’t seem that Malota requires a reply from Anders, as she paces on slightly ahead, apparently preferring to walk alone.

Fenris takes Anders’ hand in his, mindful of the spikes on his gauntlet. “She’s the first mage we’ve got who came from Kirkwall,” Anders says softly. “I thought she’d be…angrier.”

“Your actions gave her the chance for freedom,” Fenris says. There was a time when he would have affirmed Anders’ belief that he deserves others’ anger, but Fenris is beginning to suspect that Malota’s attitude is the correct one.

“Thank you, love,” Anders says, and pauses long enough to lean down and press a kiss to Fenris’ temple. Fenris feels his ears burn a little at the open affection.

“Tell me of your letters,” Fenris says brusquely, to distract from his awkwardness. He doesn’t let go of Anders’ hand, though.

Anders straightens up again. “It’s a mess trying to get the Mage Underground going again by letter,” he says. “Even with the others we met in Starkhaven in action, and the contacts we made in Hambleton, there’s still much to be done. Lots of people got too scared to help more, after Kirkwall, or fled to places I can’t look. _But_ I’ve made a breakthrough. One of our messengers got a letter to someone trustworthy and he _finally_ got back to me.”

“Don’t keep me in suspense.”

“His name is Remy Lucroy,” Anders says. “Member in good standing in the Libertarian Fraternity, one of…one of Karl’s old friends.”

The hitch in Anders’ voice is audible. Gently, Fenris squeezes his hand. For a few minutes, they walk in silence. Fenris is willing to wait.

At last, Anders resumes. “I remember Karl writing to Remy when we were at the Circle Tower and Remy was in Ghislain Circle,” he says. “Remy was transferred to Cumberland, by request of the head of the Fraternity. The Libertarians are agitators in the Circle—they talk a lot about secession.”

“And you never joined them?” Fenris asks in disbelief.

“Writing letters and manifestos was always Karl’s way, not mine, when we were in the Circle together,” Anders says. Fenris glances up to see a wistful smile on his face. “I liked more direct action.”

Fenris thinks about the battered copy of Anders’ manifesto tucked into his backpack at their camp. “Yet you spent six years writing a manifesto of your own.”

“Trying to do what Karl would have wanted,” Anders says softly.

“I think he would admire your work,” Fenris says, glancing around at their companions. Maris chatting amiably with Fabian and Pavel the front of the cart. Arnfried leading his new cow, while Alina drives the ox and speaks to Malota. A strange group, but one already fallen into a certain harmony born of shared hardship.

Anders takes a shaky breath. “Maybe,” he says. Another pause. “Anyway…I know you’ve been wanting to move everyone for a while, and with Templars coming to Aulbarrow, I think we’d better do it. Remy’s letter finally threw us a bone. As bad as things are around here, they’re _much_ better to the north.”

Fenris squints at Anders. “ _Where_ north?”

“Rivain,” Anders says. “ _Not_ Tevinter, Fenris, I know what you’re thinking.”

“I never know with you,” Fenris grumbles halfheartedly.

Ander scoffs. “Ridiculous elf,” he says, fond despite his words. “Remy has friends in Dairsmuid Circle and apparently things are different there. He says that the Chantry doesn’t hold much sway outside of Dairsmuid. Many people aren’t even Andrastian. The Templars turn a blind eye to _many_ things.”

“That sounds useful.”

“It does,” Anders says. “Of course, we’ll need a destination. As much as I enjoy running off into the blue without a plan, doing that with twenty other people is a bit suicidal for my current tastes.”

“There will have to be other considerations,” Fenris says. “Even as a large group the roads will be risky. I will hire more mercenaries to guard your wayward mages. We will need more beasts of burden. Another cart.”

“Traveling supplies,” Anders says with a grimace. “And now we can’t shop in Aulbarrow.”

“That comes after finding our destination.” Fenris scuffs a foot thoughtfully in the dust of the road. “It is unfortunate that neither of us spoke more with that Crow we met with Hawke. Had we done so, I might try to reach out to the Crows for information…”

Anders shrugs. “That would be more expensive than I think we’d like. Ornek came from Kont-Arr, didn’t he? Perhaps he knows something.”

“We’ll ask,” Fenris says.

“It’s oddly refreshing to think about getting on the road again,” Anders says thoughtfully. He pulls Fenris to a halt, looking down at him with soft eyes. “To be fair, though, it would be much less pleasant if I weren’t traveling with you.”

Fenris doesn’t have anything elegant to say to that. Anders always has a way of leaving him too flustered to decide on what to say. But Anders doesn’t seem to mind that Fenris replies by drawing him down into a kiss.

Even though it’s brief, it leaves Fenris with a warm feeling all the way home.

**Author's Note:**

> Did I give Fenris his Blue Wraith haircut? _Maybe_. This one is a little less dramatic, but the vibe is there. 
> 
> The village is my tiny attempt at worldbuilding. The name “Aulbarrow” was once simply “the barrow of Aulus,” the ancient soldier buried near the village who _did_ exist, far back in the heyday of the old Imperium. I like to believe he was as heroic as the legend claims!
> 
> “Prophet’s thistle” is the Thedas version of _Silybum marianum_ , “Our Lady’s Thistle.”  
>  _“…that Crow we met with Hawke”_ Say hi to Zevran!


End file.
